Partial
by Arsenic Allure
Summary: ‘We are all partial; so many different bits to make a whole. People have so many sides to their personality. There are so many bits running around inside of us that sometimes it’s hard to be “strong.” It’s just how humans are, Hermione.’ OWHG.
1. Five Hermiones

**Partial – 1/5**

On her right side, Hermione is looking attentively at the speakers. Pink lips curls into a small smile, her right hand lays daintily in her lap like she is a lady of faultless etiquette. On that side, she is the epitome of the perfect daughter of the hosts.

On her left side, Hermione is looking longingly out the window. Red lips curls into a sharp grimace, her left hand has ink-flecked fingers clenching around the fragile neck of the empty wine glass. On that side, she is a grenade waiting to explode.

She is a precarious contradiction. The numerous hollies around her quiver in fear and the winter sun cowardly hides behind the clouds. A few snowflakes fall outside, gently spinning to the cold ground and melt immediately at landing, like they never existed in such individual beauty at all. She wants to go outside. She wants to be cold, not warm. Vulgar, not polite. She wants to spray sparks from her wand, shout from the identical rooftops, apparate to the London central and drink butterbeer in Hogsmeade.

But the real Hermione is locked in a magical cage and her vocal screams are smothered with a silencing charm. The contradictions, the many parts of Hermione, are held back by a velvet rope, and the only Hermiones allowed into the Christmas Lunch are Hermione the Polite, Hermione the Host and Hermione the Lady to make the ultimate Hermione: Hermione the Perfect.

And so, Hermione the Perfect listens to Friend Of the Family, Dentistry Colleague, Uncle, Aunt, Cousin, Grandparent, Second Cousin, Rover the Labrador tell her everything she needs to know.

Hermione the Perfect is too thin.

Hermione the Perfect has bushy hair.

Hermione the Perfect still has large teeth.

Hermione the Perfect needs to wear makeup.

Hermione the Perfect seems too tired and too lifeless.

Hermione the Perfect is, therefore, not so perfect after all.

On the matter of these imperfections, each Hermione has a different reaction. Hermione the Reasonable is considering each as she weighs the pros and cons. Hermione the Suicidal has cracked the wine glass, watched the blood spurt past the pieces and now lies irrationally dead in a dark corner. Hermione the Malicious is looking up dark curses, Muggles and Ministry be damned.

In reality, Hermione the Perfect nods at these observations, agrees, and moves on. Problem solved.

She pauses for a breather from the mingling, and Hermione the Bouncer accidentally lets Hermione the Lonely and Hermione the Tired in, and so the breath becomes a sigh and the sigh becomes exhaustion. Hermione the Lonely looks at the slightly sick Christmas tree, still majestic, regal and important, incredibly, as it stands in the middle of the room. Hermione the Excited fell terminally ill at the start of the season, and so Hermione the Lonely is not excited for Christmas. Hermione the Reasonable says she simply grew out of it, and, anyway, Hermione the Observational adds in, it was much better at Hogwarts. All able-bodied Hermiones nod wholeheartedly. Hermione the Krum-addicted would have giggled sickeningly, but Hermione the Destined-For-Ron may or may not have stupefied her and Hermione the Cheated may or may not have stupefied _her_ as well. Hermione the Observational again sends word that she's observed a distinctive pattern of murdered Hermiones in the past, and that there are a few residents missing. Hermione the Reasonable reminds her that new Hermiones have moved in, so it doesn't really matter.

Hermione the Bothered tells them to shut up or else. Hermione the Bouncer 'escorts' the newcomers out.

Not all the guests have arrived. Hermione the Bouncer allows Hermione the Observational back in to survey the room. Mr. Granger is talking to a Dentist Colleague in the middle of the sitting room, waving his hands around in what is deemed an inaccurate example of scraping teeth, thank you Hermione the Daughter. Mrs. Granger weaves through the small crowd and holds a plate of nibbles up high to offer, the name or make of the appetizer no Hermione can define, but each suppose must be Christmassy in some way or another. Hermione the Daughter thinks her parent's look happy, but Hermione the Observational can see the tightness of their backs through the jumpers and the lines around their faces that remind Hermione the Regretful that they are on their guard: there's a witch in the room. Hermione the Regretful tries to talk to Hermione the Reasonable about how she was _protecting_ them. Hermione the Observational shakes her bushy head and disagrees. Magic against them by their own daughter is betrayal. Their lives were taken, albeit only for a time.

Hermione the Observational observes the laments in Hermione the Regretful's eyes and turns back to the crowd. Two ten-year-old cousins are scrutinizing in disbelief and dissatisfaction the oatmeal, Santa-shaped, sugarless biscuits as they take a bite, grab a napkin, spit them in and throw them out. No Hermione blames them much.

After scanning the room and only seeing stranger's faces, Hermione the Observational catches sight of her grandparents sitting on the lounges facing the yellow fire. Grandfather Jack is tending it with the metal poker, a smile of pure gaiety upon his face as Grandfather Merrick stares clueless at the chessboard, looking glum. Hermione the Witch calls in that Grandfather Jack would _love_ wizard's chess, no matter how barbaric Hermione the Sheltered thinks it is. Hermione the Sheltered is becoming much smaller and frailer as Hermione the Warrior rises further towards her rank every day.

Hermione, any Hermione, is always careful of her Grandmothers. Hermione the Malicious sometimes wishes they'd keel over and die soon, but is then immediately tackled to the ground by Hermione the Caring, stared down stonily by the more righteous Hermiones and has to choke out an apology to retain her malevolent status or else cease to exist. It's an ironic trap, though, but Hermione the Malicious is so lost in her malice that she doesn't realise.

It's not that they're bad. On the contrary, they are quite nice old ladies who deserve presents rather than coal. They simply love to talk, and not everyone loves to listen.

And, as it happens, Hermione, in her Hermione the Perfect form, is just about to be preyed upon by these quite nice old ladies who simply love to talk when the doorbell rings and she receives a gesture from her mother to answer it like a good, ladylike Hermione the Host. She turns in her settled position at the window to try and see who it is, but, alas, the only vision is a contrast of black coat against white, rapidly melting snow. Hermione the Perfect navigates perfectly through the sitting room, past the warm fire and into the small hallway to open the door. She breathes a sigh of exhaustion, realises, and Hermione the Bouncer kicks Hermione the Lonely and Hermione the Tired out the door. Her façade rightly in place, Hermione the Perfect opens the door.

She smiles. 'Good Afternoon, do come in.'

The woman who slides past with a smile has brown hair and brown eyes, quietly beautiful, much like Mrs. Granger. A young girl, around fifteen, follows her, along with a man remarkably similar with lighter brown hair and darker skin. But it's the last visitor who she's most interested in. He stands proudly, just less than men's average height, stocky and burly built with brown eyes and brown hair poking out from underneath a blue and gold striped beanie, a matching scarf wrapped around his neck. He grins at her, nods and _accidentally_ brushes against her jeans with his leg as he shuffles past. Hermione the Observational sets off the alarms. Her eyes widen. She swallows. Hermione the Attracted hopes he isn't a long-lost cousin.

Through all this assault, Hermione the Perfect prevails, says, 'Coats and scarfs,' she pauses, 'er…' Hermione the Socially-Inept breaks through and yells doomsday warnings for a moment before she is hauled back out, 'and _beanies_ are being held in this room.' The girl is looking at her steadily, like she is a celebrity or famous, and the Last Visitor grins again. Hermione the Perfect splendidly ignores Hermione the Observational's observations and gestures to a magically enlarged coat closet that holds a table, a few chairs and some chests from the attic to give it the appearance of previous use. Coats and scarves, no beanies yet, are scattered and sometimes folded around the room.

'Biggest coat cupboard I've ever seen,' chuckles the man, who Hermione the Observational assumes is the family father. Hermione the Attracted tries to find an advantageous window to watch the Last Visitor unwind the scarf, take off the long black coat to reveal a black knitted jumper and dark jeans – she drools shamelessly – and, as if it was a special show, pluck the beanie off from his head and place it delicately on top. A mess of dark brown hat hair is observed… and staggeringlyignored. 'The party's in the sitting room to the left, and lunch will be served within the hour in the dining room on the right.'

The family mother smiles that sweet smile again, thanks her and follows Hermione the Perfect out of the coat cupboard to the sitting room. Hermione the Memory Worker labours fiendishly to figure out just when and where she has seen the family mother and the Last Visitor. When they are all inside and comfortable, after another suspicious though _completely_ accidental brush of contact from the Last Visitor and a devious smirk from the younger girl that places her at the top of Hermione the Prefect's troublemakers list, she about faces and heads towards the bathroom at the far end of the hall.

But Hermione the Frazzled drives her right past it to the far, far end of the hall to her own bedroom. She closes the door, leans against it and tries resolutely to breathe. Hermione the Attracted is in danger of drowning in her own spit as she babbles uncontrollably about his delicious attributes to the air, because everyone has taken cover and some are blocking their ears and hiding in dark corners like whoever is controlling Hermione's body right now.

Definitely not Hermione the Reasonable or her close companion Hermione the Logical. They are too busy trying to close Hermione the Attracted's salivating mouth. Luckily, Hermione the Bouncer just sighs and walks in, plucks out the undesirables, throws them through the entryway and stalks back out, leaving Hermione the Logical the captain's chair.

Hermione the Grateful thanks Hermione the Bouncer as Hermione the Logical rose up and walked to her full length mirror, positioned in the corner of the plain room next to the bed. She stares into its vain, reflective depths, thinking about makeup and hair and teeth and body mass indexes, but nothing seems to help. Help what? Frazzled nerves, images of war, hormones? She still wants to scream. The subject, she isn't sure. Hermione the Logical thinks of too many things to pinpoint just one.

Hermione the Logical divines it time to leave and, logically, saves Hermione the Bouncer the job of forceful exchange, knowing that even a bouncer can get tired of bouncing. Hermione the Perfect walks back out, closes the door softly and retreats past the bathroom, patting her somewhat-constrained hair because Hermione the Self-Conscious is whining about how horrible it is. Suddenly, _he _comes striding fast around the corner, and Hermione the Warrior only just manages to jump in and pull them out of the way at the very last second. She skids to a halt and subconsciously falls into a battle position, bent at the knees, holding herself up with strong thigh muscles, staying low and she almost, almost draws her wand before shouts not to spring from both Hermione the Muggle and Hermione the Witch.

The Last Visitor looks so astounded at such a reflex that she thought he might applaud for a moment before his features smooth over and he holds up his hands. 'Do your worst,' he says. It would be a threat if he wasn't half-smiling in a lopsided grin. Hermione the Attracted swoons and Hermione the Reasonable scoffs, wondering when the giggling is going to start.

Hermione the Perfect remains perfect under the pressure. She stands up, dons her host voice and asks, 'Are you lost? The bathroom's down there.'

He ignores her pointed finger. 'Actually, I was looking for you.'

Hermione the Observational turns the alarms back on. The spinning red lights force Hermione the Socially-Inept to double her furious panicking and she almost collides with the screaming Hermione the Frazzled. Hermione the Logical tries to deduce _why_ he would be looking for any Hermione at all and watches as Hermione the Memory Worker is still frantically searching, tearing pages and smudging ink. Hermione the Perfect falls away and there's only Hermione the Attracted left in the rising crescendo of panic. 'Oh,' she breathes.

He leans against the hall wall. 'What's your name?'

Hermione the Attracted instinctively copies him, leans against the opposite hall wall. "Hermione. What's yours?'

'Oliver,' he grins, then it fades and his face is serious, as if he can't quite comprehend something. 'I swear I've seen you before but, for the life of me, I can't figure it out.'

'I've seen you too,' Hermione the Attracted manages to say. 'And your mother…'

'She is. She works at Mr. and Mrs. Granger's clinic as a secretary. Relatively new to the job, though.' Hermione the Memory Worker writes that down.

In the easy conversation, the panic has died down and Hermione the Bouncer is once again throwing people out. Hermione the Perfect tries to re-enter, but is rejected because Hermione the Logical is needed right now. 'I'm sure she'll be fine.' Hermione the Attracted thinks it might be useful to know his surname, and he hers. She wants his name, his phone number and his body very close to hers. 'My names Hermione Granger.'

Hermione the Logical belts out a warning about dark wizards and surrounding muggles and the consequences of telling anyone your name without knowing theirs. But his face lights up instantly, and he cries, 'I knew it!' so triumphantly that she is reminded of the time Ginny beat Ron at wizard's chess.

'You did?'

Oliver pushes his short fringe away from his face. 'I did, just then too. Put two and two together: a Hermione at the Granger's Christmas Lunch.' He presents his hand, offering it to shake, 'Oliver Wood, Miss Granger, at your Christmas Lunch.'

Hermione the Logical sighs thankfully and walks out to have Hermione the Reasonable take her place. She shakes his hand with a small smile. 'It's my parent's lunch, really.'

Their hands don't drop immediately, and his feels cool, smooth and large in her small and pale one. Her grip is only slightly less strong than his, for that she's proud. They fall away and their hands lose touch slowly, a trail of the fingertips that has Hermione the Attracted shivering, schooling herself not to snatch it back. He leans away again. 'And it's all in the name of Christmas.'

'Which is three days away, making the title somewhat incorrect,' she notes. Then Hermione the Logical storms back in, yelling what she forgot and places her hand on her hip and locks her ankles. 'Hang on,' she says, 'how did you figure that out?' He grins, leans forwards once more.

Hermione the Reasonable reasons he is two feet from her face now and so, Hermione the Attracted starts fighting for control, crying out obscenities and continuously screaming that it is so close, such an absolutely brilliant opportunity to get so much more _intimate_, which makes Hermione the Reasonable kick her in the shin and retort that that is _not_ why he's leaning closer. It is instead to tell her, 'I'm a wizard, you know, magically gifted.'

Hermione the Attracted dances around with a bruise on her shin in absolute glee, chanting words like _dreamy_ and _wonderful_ and _charming_, swooning and giggling with her eyes twinkling and her head in the clouds. Hermione the Bothered commands silence and all Hermiones listen in.

Oliver regards her steadily, backing away again. 'You know,' he says, peering at her, 'it's odd that I've seen you before. I don't read the papers or the magazines in the wizarding world.'

Hermione the Reasonable finds this incredibly odd, asks impulsively, 'Why not?'

Oliver seems to puff out his chest. He stands up and declares, 'Quidditch Keeper for Puddlemere United. I'm on the reserve team for now, but my big break's sure to come.'

Hermione the Memory Worker immediately tosses the 'W' volume away and pulls out 'Q' for Quidditch; she flicks through quickly and runs her fingers down the names column. She tries to fish for other clues. 'And that stops you?'

'My mates tell me the big things that are happening; how the Dream Team saved the World from…' he pauses, looks over at her.

'Voldemort,' she supplies.

'You think it's okay to say it now? So soon?'

'I've been saying it for three years. Why stop now?'

'That's brave. It's only been five months'

Hermione the Self-Conscious pushes her way in and changes the subject, 'I thought most of the wizarding world knew me by looks alone.'

Oliver's eyes flick, and Hermione the Self-Conscious almost dies. Hermione the Attracted just about drops in an over-pleasured faint when she sees he is checking her out through his lashes. Oliver coughs, clears his throat, 'Yeah,' he mutters, 'pretty memorable.'

Hermione the Perfect suddenly starts up a tirade about the importance of host duties and how everyone will wonder where Hermione the Daughter has gone. Everyone agrees; everyone needs a breather from the intensity of the situation.

Then suddenly, a light bulb seems to appear above Hermione the Memory Worker's head and she snaps her fingers, shuts the book and yells the answer triumphantly. 'Hogwarts,' Hermione the Reasonable butts in, managing to lower the volume, 'That's where I've seen you. You were Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.'

His eyes light up to the same wattage as her own. 'And you were friends with Harry, obviously, and the Weasleys. And you…' he snaps his fingers, 'and you fixed Harry's glasses for the last match… and we won.' Oliver leans back on the wall. 'Those were the days.'

They smile at each other. Hermione the Self-Conscious decides that it is too uncomfortable when that is all it is. She says apologetically, 'I have to go be a host now.'

He grins lopsidedly again, and Hermione the Attracted almost forgives Hermione the Self-Conscious for cutting her wooing time short. 'And I have to go be a guest. Serve me well, won't you?'

Hermione the Attracted cannot blurt out all the sultry retorts that such a phrase warrants because Hermione the Witch is one step ahead and has cast a body bind on her. Hermione the Grateful thanks her the most. Hermione the Perfect strides regally in past the red velvet ropes and steps inside. She smiles, 'This way.'

Hermione the Memory Worker is mildly confused when Hermione the Observational recognises that he said nothing major about Quidditch. Oliver Wood always has been Quidditch and only Quidditch, according to Harry Potter. But it is Hermione the Frazzled who takes control when they enter the sitting room.

Time stands still. A biscuit is frozen on its travels to a guest's open mouth. Grandfather Merrick is paused in argument with Grandfather Jack, Mr. and Mrs. Granger stare across the room at each other. Hermione the Observational notes the love in their locked eyes, the sparkling that seems to move and shiver even while time is stopped. Hermione the Memory Worker writes it down in red ink; important and unforgettable.

Whilst Oliver critically nudges a red ball into a better position that's flying mid-air between her two cousins, Hermione the Observational surveys the room, not him, of course, as Hermione the Prefect is simultaneously searching for the culprit. Oliver's sister immediately falls under her radar. Hermione the Prefect looks positively murderous, but the girl still grins deviously and remarks, 'Absolutely brilliant.'

All the lighter Hermiones agree that is certainly is, but Hermione the Prefect is on a mission. She puts her hands on her hips and leers down at the girl. 'And just _what_ is going on here?'

'Weasley's Wizard Wheezes' newly released Time Stoppers,' she declares, holding out the packet, 'only affects within a certain radius and it is made like the instant darkness powder. It's just as ingenious, too!'

Oliver chuckles, stands behind his sister and puts his hands on her shoulders. 'Got to hand it to them, it's pretty darn good. How long's it last?'

'The packet says about five minutes. But—'

'_Five minutes?_' Hermione the Witch repeats disbelievingly, 'damn twins and their smarts…'

'I'll have to tell them you said that.'

'… but it's totally irresponsible. And on my parent's dinner party too! And messing with time; I'll be giving them a talking to when I next see them, I swear.'

'Er… you two, you know—'

'Look, we're wasting time. How about we ditch this and go play Quidditch out the back, just a quick game, eh, Jean?'

'Yeah, but Oliver—'

'Quidditch?' Hermione the Prefect yells, losing control, 'the room is stopped, _time_ has stopped and you want to play _Quidditch_? We are not playing that ridiculous sport, if you can call it that, while my _muggle _relatives and guests are stuck in limbo!'

But Hermione the Prefect is too busy to notice the colour draining from Oliver's face. Hermione the Attracted and Hermione the Observational both understand the implications of the last outburst spoken to someone so fanatical as Oliver Wood, and they understand why Jean is repeating over and over to her dumbstruck brother, 'she didn't mean it; really she didn't.' who is glaring at Hermione the Prefect as she continues on and on about consequences of time travel, completely ignorant to the fact that Hermione the Attracted is slowly screaming in agony at such a loss. Hermione the Reasonable fights to stop her and Hermione the Memory Worker is trying to find more paper or parchment to record on.

'Bad things happen to wizards who mess with time. For Merlin's sake, stop that, _Jean_, because I bloody well do mean it; now is _not_ the time for Quidditch, and no one in their right mind would risk their necks so stupidly, only relying on a twig between their legs for a _game_. Especially when time is _not_ continuing as it should.' She stops for a breath, notes Oliver's stony gaze. 'What is the counter charm?'

Jean shakes her head. 'There is none, only a genuine guarantee that it will run out.' She checks the packet and her eyes widen. 'There's about thirty seconds left, however, so you might want to leave.'

Oliver storms back out into the hallway and Hermione the Regretful follows much more quietly, just catching Jean's muttering of crazy war heroes and valuable prank time lost before she turns the corner and Hermione the Observational sees Oliver staring a hole in his black dragon hide boots. Hermione the Regretful falls down on her knees and begs forgiveness, spurred on my the murderous glare of Hermione the Attracted that is burning her own hole through her bowed, bushy head.

But none of this happens because Hermione the Caring smashes through Hermione the Bouncer and demands that the situation be treated with the delicacy it needs and deserves because Hermione the _Sodding_ Prefect just insulted Oliver himself by insulting his Quidditch.

And so, she steps forward to work it out, first right, then left, as if she's walking to her death. Oliver looks up with hard eyes and speaks through gritted teeth with his sharp chin clenched.

'I can't believe someone like you would say something like that.'

Hermione the Malicious pushes her way in, and suddenly she is a spitfire, burning with one hundred witty quips on hand for instant use. 'Well I can certainly believe that someone like _you_ would say something as idiotic as that,' she spits, smirking as half the Hermiones drop unconscious to the floor, 'You're, what? Nineteen? Twenty? Where's your responsibility, or your sister's?'

'And where's yours? Did you lose it in the war? Did you just give up and let go?'

Hermione the Malicious strides towards him, utterly furious that he would mention _it_ so menacingly when they were supposed to be talking about whether or not it is idiots who play or do not play Quidditch. He is not supposed to take her oxygen away more than she took his; this is not how it is _supposed_ to be.

'How dare you!' she yells into his face. 'At least I wasn't a coward! At least I fought! At least I had _something_ to give up!' Sudden chattering and merry-making sounds come from the sitting room and kitchen. They hardly notice.

Oliver propels forward and pushes her into the opposite wall, boxing her in with his arms. 'I am not a coward,' he growls quietly. 'I was at a game.'

It does not even occur to Hermione the Malicious to be afraid as she elbows Hermione the Caring from behind and shoots her quip anyway; 'My point exactly.'

They stare at each other, as if it is a very close stand off, and the common bond of determined fire in their eyes goes unnoticed because they are clashing like symbols, like warriors of war, duellists, siblings, enemies and lovers all at the same time.

The feud stops as suddenly as it had begun when Oliver pushes himself off and strides away. She follows a few seconds after. Hermione the Perfect returns in solemn silence.

Grandmother Dorothy has seen her. She throws her net wide and all Hermiones are caught like mindless fish, so the quite nice old lady who simply loves to talk grins toothily at her magnificent catch and reels it in. _Help_.

**-AA-**


	2. Four Hermiones

**Partial – 2/5**

Surely anything is better than listening to ladies debate the best knitting colour, or how to make the best cake or jam or potato salad or sock or waffle or recount _every single thing_ they did the day before. Hermione the Perfect is sitting still as a statue, cracking in subtle places as each agonizing minute ticks by, nodding and replying perfect words of, 'Wow!' and 'Really?' and 'Incredible!' and 'Yes, of course' as appropriate.

Her resolve is slipping. the minutes crawl by; another crack, a chip of the ear. Hermione the Memory Worker is taking a cat nap over her paper, parchment and ink pens and quills scattered along her wooden desk in the corner. Hermione the Reasonable is realising that she should never, ever end up this lonely, though, she reasons, the probability of the Hermiones living in a cottage alone with fifty cats for the rest of her long, wizarding life is rising by the second. Especially after the argument with Prospect Number One, that is, Oliver Wood, sent Hermione the Attracted wallowing in a sea of dark blue depression that only warmth from Prospect Number One can reverse.

Soon, Hermione the Perfect is cracked so much that her replies are sounding much less enthusiastic. Now the words have descended to 'yeah' and 'alright' and 'yes, that sounds lovely', mostly inappropriate.

The wrinkled, chattering woman seems to be a machine, built to torture granddaughters with lessons from ye old days and, even more horrific, recounts of each and every cake they have ever made, complete with detailed explanations of icing decorations and the exact colour of the _wonderful_ cream filling. Surely it cannot just be white? No, it must be 'ivory mixed with egg white' or perhaps 'clean snow and the flesh of a pale, unripe peach.'

And all through it, the other Hermiones are becoming louder and louder. Hermione the Warrior fuels them dutifully, yelling inspirational messages to rile them up for a war. And all through _this_ Hermione the Perfect is slowly losing her cool.

But, damn it, she had been through a war and had been colder than a frozen pond. Why now was the ice starting to crack? It had been months and months and months since the beginning of the end. She had been strong as stone, gone to numerous funerals for the nameless dead that seem a blur now, and for what? To be driven to insanity by an old woman's blasted _gobbledygook_?

In-between her robotic replies, she realises that all Hermione the Memory Worker allows her to remember is that she was in a war where Voldemort died and the Light was victorious. Any details on the venue or who died and who survived are buried in a restricted bookshelf, locked and sectioned off in a part of her brain that she dare not try to access. And she blames it on solely on Oliver Wood.

Bloody Wood.

Hermione the Reasonable tries to point out that it is not his fault at all. Hermione the Bothered tells her to stop being so bossy and bothersome.

'So I went to the shops with my friend Geraldine, lovely lady, and we saw the most _marvellous_ woollen scarf that I thought would be just perfect for this weather. Don't you agree, Hermy?'

Hermione the Malicious is pulled back by Hermione the Reasonable and her long string of murderous threats and promises of extremely bad karma fall out of earshot. Hermione the Caring suppresses the resulting shudder and Hermione the Perfect saves the day, replying, 'Yes, that sounds lovely,' at just the right time. Grandmother Dorothy continues. Everyone groans.

_Hermy_. Oh, the horror. She distracts herself by staring at the pitying tree.

The minutes continue to idle at an agonizing crawl: yet another crack, yet another chip of the ear. After twenty minutes of pure agony, Mrs. Granger comes to the rescue. 'I'm sorry, Mum. Could I just steal my daughter for a moment, please?'

Hermione the Perfect is perfect, yet not so perfect after all, once more and she tries not to run or show even a scrap of relief. Grandmother Dorothy reaches forwards to pat her not so perfect arm and smiles a toothy smile that's supposed to be warm and motherly but comes across as a possessed leer. 'That's perfectly alright, darling,' she says, completely unfazed, 'you go like a good girl, Hermy. I'll be waiting for your return.'

Hermione the Perfect smiles as best she can and rises like she's wearing a skirt rather than jeans, like the good girl that she supposedly is. Hermione the Malicious rolls her eyes; what an act, what a lie. Complete fallacy; good girls are not murderers.

Hermione the Daughter enters the kitchen along with Hermione the Grateful. The household kitchen is small, but not too small, and the oven is large, but not too large. It is moderate in colour and utensils, traditional down to the tea towels and measuring spoons that makes it feel pleasantly homely. Hermione the Daughter inhales the scent of turkey and herbed and roasted potatoes and looks around at the pots and pans simmering on the stove top. She curiously raises a lid to steamed broccoli and carrot strips in a sauce that smells only of mixed, undefinable herbs to her untrained nose while her mother looks on. Hermione the Daughter does not like what she sees in her eyes.

It is not love. In her mother and father's eyes she sees something that she has always been afraid she will see, ever since she was eleven years old and wondered if they liked her anymore. _It's you, darling,_ her mother had said, _and we _love_ you_. That does not seem to be valid anymore.

For in their eyes is fear.

Hermione the Reasonable tries to explain it whenever this becomes a conscious thought: she reminds her, mostly Hermione the Regretful, that she turned her wand on her parents, and that is something that they had thought she would never do. Now they are afraid she will do it again, and not just to their memories. It is a matter of trust; the absence of trust can promote fear. That is what has happened.

Now, though, Hermione the Grateful has dragged herself back out, meeting malicious laughs and pitying, impassive stares, and only Hermione the Daughter, who simply feels betrayed, is left to deal with the Look.

Mrs. Granger does not beat around the bush. 'I'd like you to make the tree healthy again and increase the brightness of the lights reflecting off the bells. You can use… _that_.' She points dismissively to Hermione's hidden pocket in her sleeve where she hides _that_.

Hermione the Reasonable determines _that_ equals wand and Hermione the Bothered orders her silence skilfully for stating the obvious. Hermione the Prefect and Hermione the Witch shake their head. 'In the presence of _them_ it's illegal and immoral. So, I can't.'

'You can and will,' Mrs. Granger reprimands sharply, 'I will _not_ have you ruining my Christmas Lunch because of reckless disobedience.'

No Hermione has a retort for this better than Hermione the Daughter. 'It seems we've switched places,' she says coolly. 'Now I'm teaching you life's lessons and you're the ten-year-old backing your entirely insubstantial argument with irrational excuses.'

'Watch your tongue, Hermione,' Mrs. Granger warns dangerously.

She clamps her mouth shut, then opens it again. She feels like she is back in the war, buttering up the enemy with banter before one goes in for the kill. 'I'm eighteen, Mum. I don't have any _reckless _disobedience left. And it's a _wand_ that will spruce up your tree and chime your bells because _you_ can't do it yourself.'

Mrs. Granger stares, confused, her eyebrows knitted together and she drives the stake home.

'You should take away your own memory. I don't know who I'm talking to.'

Her words wound the Hermiones, as if it were a real stake driving into her recently frozen heart. She becomes breathless. She is dying a metaphorical death, but it hurts just the same, and a whisper of her own voice in her mind tells her that the middle aged woman in front of her, with bushy hair and chocolate eyes like her own, is an absolute stranger, more so than what she sees when she looks in the mirror. And so, she responds with a deadened, 'Neither do I,' waves her hand with wandless magic, power fuelled by emotion flowing out of them and into the tree and bells. Never leaving the stranger's sharp gaze, she repeats, 'neither do I' and leaves.

_-x-x-x-_

Hermione the Tired ignores Grandmother Dorothy for as long as she can before she must don the cracked Hermione the Perfect mask, a fallacy like Hermione the Malicious so rightly said, and sit back down. She tries not to give herself away, tries not to let them know she's wishing so very hard that she could flee by the blessed immediacy of appirition. Suddenly, she wishes for a Time Stopper. Hell, she is wishing for both Fred and George right now, in a complete misery-based, platonic way. She swishes the water around in her wine glass absently. Hermione the Logical realises she wants magic back, the freedom to practice it, no restrictions on her gift, she wants Hermione the Witch to grow and thrive. Her eyes flick to Oliver who appears to be scrutinizing the Christmas tree. Let him look.

Grandmother Dorothy has been joined by Mr. Granger's mother, Grandmother Joyce. Hermione the Perfect wonders when she will finally shatter. And when she finally does sit down, the first thing they say causes Hermione the Perfect to choke on the water.

'Have you got a beau, dear?'

Hermione the Frazzled almost overpowers Hermione the Bouncer. 'Er…' her eyes flick again unbidden to Oliver. He is staring blatantly at her, as if she is a fish in a tank. Hermione the Attracted leaps up in her stomach in a back flip and she has to tear her eyes away for fear of appearing _too_ interested. She coughs, 'Pardon?'

Two toothy grins beam a hundred watts each at Hermione the Perfect, who is not so perfect after all, that blinds her eyes with dread. They seem scarily similar to the Cheshire cat out of _Alice in Wonderland_; knowing, scheming, plotting. Hermione Observational realises too late that they have seen her involuntary glance, and then much too late Hermione the Observational realises that they are in matchmaker mode. The two lean forwards. Their many pieces of jewellery clink and twinkle ominously in the light.

Hermione the Frazzled finally skeeters through an open gap and runs around the control room, screaming hysterically. 'We were just wondering if you've managed to catch a fish from the sea, in a manner of speaking. Boyfriends, as they're called these days, can be very useful you know.'

Grandmother Dorothy nudges Grandmother Joyce with a flabby arm in glee. 'Oh yes,' she agrees, 'entertaining too. And, dare I say, wonderfully enticing.' They giggle like love sick schoolchildren. Hermione the Frazzled, wondering if she looks a bit green, almost apparates away in her blind panic before both Hermione the Prefect and Hermione the Witch stop her.

Hermione the Observational points out that she is talking to two wrinkled skin bags about sex. All Hermiones, even Hermione the Attracted, try not to gag.

they stop, suddenly, realising she hasn't answered. 'Er… no, I don't.'

The busy, bloody head of Hermione the Regretful rolls pitifully across the floor, cut off by a guillotine controlled by two old crones that cackle manically in the background. their gleaming eyes are frightening. They rub their hands together.

'That's too bad.'

'Not good at all.'

_Oh, Merlin, help me._

_-x-x-x-_

'Right, let's eat.' Mr. Granger rubs his hands together and Hermione the Memory Worker strikes up the sense of déjà vu. At least she has been saved from the Grandmothers' vast and enthusiastic wedding planning and the Grandfathers' sympathetic glances as she sits on her father's left, who stands momentarily at the head seat, and opposite her mother on his right at the dining table. The family avoid each other's gazes.

The dining table stretches across the room to hold twelve people to each side and one at each head, a total of twenty-three guests and three hosts, the lights shine brightly and the emerald green tablecloth marries well with the red napkins and gold decorations placed at regular intervals down its length. Hermione the Attracted fixes her eyes on Oliver as he talks to his father and sister, laughing and nodding his head, seated at the other end of the table. He looks up, catches her eye and narrows his own eyes immediately, and Hermione the Observational clenches her fist as he pointedly ignores her. How dare him; they are feuding, and Moody says you never walk away from a fight, you never take your eyes off your opponent and you never, ever, tolerate feigned ignorance. Hermione the Warrior shouts the words in a battle cry; Constant vigilance!

Five minutes into eating, the battle rears its ugly head and their war becomes public.

'So, Hermione,' Oliver calls unexpectedly, 'what's your favourite sport?'

'Oh, Hermione doesn't play sport.'

Hermione the Observational notes the set trap, so she smiles and interrupts her mother. 'Soccer,' she says, 'I especially like the goal keepers; they are to _die_ for.'

He understood her message. 'I'm sure they enjoy hearing comments like that very much,' Oliver responds dryly and a subtle anger mars his eyes.

Hermione the Malicious smiles sickly sweet, taking a leaf out of Umbridge's book. 'Any other questions?'

'Yes, actually,' he counters. She knows he can see right through her innocent act. 'Why did you become such a mind-wasted bitch?'

Sharp clatters sound throughout the room as many guests drop their cutlery. then it falls silent, save for a shocked 'Oliver!' from his appalled mother and Hermione the Witch is itching to take her wand from her sleeve and hex him directly down to the floor.

Instead, Hermione the Malicious bares her teeth savagely and snarls, 'I was born gifted, unlike yourself, idiotic jock! You're a bloody coward!'

Simultaneous gasps erupt from every side of the table, reprimands of 'Hermione!' from various Granger family members and an awed 'cool!' from Jean reach her ears. And then it calm abruptly into a silent confusion.

'I told you, I'm not a coward.' Oliver retorts angrily in the quiet. He points his fork at her menacingly. Both ignore the staring; they only have eyes for each other.

'Then why did you,' she stops, checks her words and begins again, ever more vicious. 'Why did you play _sport_ instead? Tell me that!'

Oliver doesn't respond, can't or won't. If it is his own Oliver the Stubborn, she doesn't know because Hermione the Malicious allows no room for pondering.

Silence. Inside and out. Shock. Both sides know it's a misunderstanding and make no move to comprehend it. Partial grasps at shreds of reason that elude them so spectacularly arises Hermione the Frazzled like a gloomy astral moon so she screams and screams and screams. Even though her heart beats fast and her eyes are filling up for the irrational reason that it's all just too hard, she wants things to be okay between them and she doesn't know why. Sleet falls quietly outside, as if a plea for them to surrender. But they won't speak or look or hear the other or notice that the frivolity the Christmas Lunch initially has resumed. Hermione the Reasonable pushes a dirty rag into Hermione the Malicious's mouth when she deems the situation much too appalling to continue unheeded. She breathes back in her hurtful insults; Hermione the Daughter's saving grace from her furious mother's wrath.

She does not cry.

_-x-x-x-_

Mrs. Granger huffs angrily. Grandmother Dorothy places a wizened, arthritic hand on her arm and her daughter sighs quietly. She looks down the table at the slight blushes and stubborn ignorance of the two featured young adults and she grins smugly because she knows before they do that, before the day is out, they will know what she knows. Stubbornness can only get one so far.

_-x-x-x-_

**-AA-**


	3. Three Hermiones

**Partial – 3/5**

Mrs. Granger wisely saves the lecture for after the party. Hermione the Regretful is spilling silent apologies from her lips, mouthing, 'I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry' because Hermione the Reasonable has told her that now is _not_ the time. She bossily takes charge and dutifully agrees to go to the store in search of emergency necessities for the last supper. She's banished to the hard chore of excessive mingling whilst the list is scribed.

Hermione the Attracted takes over instantly as the kitchen door swings shut and spots him in the crowd from her built-in Number One Prospect radar. She frowns when he's obviously in a disagreement with his father. Soundlessly, Hermione the Attracted is knocked unconscious with chlorophyll and stashed in a convenient broom closet by Hermione the Warrior; she takes note of the value of eavesdropping. She sneaks closer. She doesn't mean to eavesdrop. Of course not.

'She doesn't like… brooms.' Hermione the Intelligent stifles her laugh at the choice of words. He needs a better thesaurus, that's for sure. Furious death threats from the closet are ignored.

Mr. Wood sighs. 'Not everyone understands beauty.'

'She's blind.'

'And so are you.' Hermione the Warrior skilfully turns her head just enough to catch his reaction; his eyebrows are raised and his lips form a thin line. He is clearly confused and somewhat insulted by his father's choice of words. Mr. Wood continues, 'the world isn't fair and people aren't the same. Since not everyone will like it, you have to tolerate those who don't, especially and starting now.'

'Now?' His voice is acidic.

'Yes,' Mr. Wood presses, 'You have to get along and stop insulting our hosts.'

'She's not a host,' Oliver hisses.

'And having your argument at the Lunch table does what?' his father counters logically, 'You're acting like children.'

Hermione the Thoughtful barges in and turns her head away, scolding eavesdropping of all kinds with empathy for the privacy of the argument between father and son.

And they all groan inwardly, each and every one, when her gaze falls on the Cheshire cats leering mysteriously at her. Grins in place, she hopes, without a hope, that Grandmother Dorothy and Grandmother Joyce will not meddle.

They meddle.

'Can't keep your eyes off him, can you?' Grandmother Dorothy whispers, so deviously that Hermione the Spiteful takes out her ultimate tome of hexes again and schemes along with them… to their demise. Of course, the two talkative, old ladies do not know this; Hermione the Perfect is back in place.

She simply smiles and nods. Problem solved.

Or not.

'Your mother tells us you are taking a trip to the store.'

'We thought you might need some _help_.'

Alone? With them? What could be worse? Hermione the Perfect smiles tightly. 'Oh no, that really is _not_ necessary, thank you.' She is ignored.

'Oh, Mr. Wood. Your son is needed for an errand.'

Hermione the Frazzled bowls Hermione the Attracted over, pulls her hair out, yelling the now-obvious that, what could be worse? _That_ could be worse. Suddenly, losing her cool, Hermione the Perfect falls away. 'No, he is not.'

'Nonsense,' Grandmother Joyce dismisses with a wave of her hand. 'Darling, you'll be twice as fast with an extra head and pair of hands. And I'm very hungry.'

Hermione the Logical frowns. 'We just had lunch.'

'I'm _hungry_, too.'

Realising help is not going to come from the two bags of wrinkles plotting before her, hungry for something she is sure is not food, she looks around the room, catching sight of no one that can help, and Oliver. He is staring at her, as if trying to figure out how much she has heard, but when he catches her looking, he scowls. Oliver doesn't want to go either. 'But he—'

Grandmother Joyce slaps her arm. 'Quiet Hermione.'

And that was it. No amount of arguing can allow them to slip away unscathed without making another scene. Hermione the Daughter stomps into the hall to its far, far end to her bedroom door.

She opens the small armoire and takes out her chocolate brown winter coat, leather gloves and Gryffindor scarf.

And suddenly Hermione the Memory Worker pounces too late on a reminiscent chill of depressive nostalgia that travels down her spine. She clutches the wool to her chest and just manages to stop the sob that has been trying to escape for months. The impact of it held back in her throat and constricting her chest sends her heart dropping like a meteor to the floor and it hurts her too thin body that is not perfect after all.

For the second time that day, Hermione the Memory Worker fails to stop a replay of blurring visions of a suppressed past that make her stop and think about how her very own Hermione broke up after the war, and her creation of Hermione the Perfect has never been and cannot ever be free of the plague of imperfections that stain her renown for perfection. She stares towards the corner of the room, dropping the scarf to the floor and the gloves on the bed.

Her cracked exterior shows itself in the mirror for a glimpse of a shattered stone warrior angel that sends her forward and crashing to press her nose to the cool glass and turn her cheek to sigh. Hermione the Observational is mesmerised by the mist that appears. Coffee eyes stare at it until it hurts, and then she turns away to step back and scrutinize, placing her critical eye to the face of her magnifying glass.

Flaws. So many flaws.

She is short, even at full height, toned yet curvy, though her unpretentious, slightly boyish and loose clothes allow no one to see anything of the kind. Her curls are in a half braid where the Christmas red ribbons are partially snared and partially free, and her long hair fans out down her back in a bushy mane that has only just begun to loosen. Her woollen jumper is mud brown like the coat, and her modest jeans unspectacular. She's just a plain Jean. Hermione the Self-Conscious clouds her mind and she turns on her side, puts her posture back to perfect and sucks in her womanly stomach.

Then, when she is not stubbornly schooling her features to hide her scattered personality from the world, she sees Oliver's reflection staring at her from the mirror with an expression on his face that no Hermione can define. His mouth is slightly agape, his eyes shining and body tense in the open doorway. Hermione the Self-Conscious flee to her dark corner to hide and Hermione the Spiteful strides in, spurred by embarrassment and an irrational anger at the man for invading her privacy. 'What are you doing?'

'I was looking for you.' He speaks in the same tone from midday, in the hall and Hermione the Attracted momentarily feels the same fire she had then before Hermione the Spiteful ruins it and raises her eyebrow. Oliver crosses his arms and frowns. 'You weren't coming and the door was open.'

'Well I am now.' Hermione the Spiteful glares at him when he walks farther in and starts examining her bedroom. She shrugs on her coat. '_Now_, what are you doing?' He seems to ignore her and picks up a photo from the bedside table of Harry, Ron and Hermione after the Gryffindor team had won the Quidditch Cup in sixth year, peers at it closely and sets it down to scan the other two. One is all of the Weasley clan, Harry and Hermione, some grinning, mainly the twins, and others smiling tightly, like Harry and Percy, with everyone else somewhere in between. She knows it is before the war, anyone could. The other is Hermione and her parents, in the distant past of second year. All are muggle photographs and all are happy and bright. It seems like an era past, such an awfully long time ago, and that nostalgia starts to creep up on her again. Hermione sniffs and sneers, 'Oliver Wood, what?' She picks up the scarf from the floor, unemotional.

'Your room is rather bare,' he comments as he looks around, ignoring her hostility.

Hermione the Regretful tries to flood in some warmth to her voice. It does not end well, but she manages slightly as Hermione the Spiteful is distracted as she begins to sort through her quips. She ponders how much to tell him, settles for short and sweet. 'I'm moving out. Let's go.'

She walks briskly down the hallway, wondering if he is dawdling or right behind. The front door opens to a definite chill of minimal degrees and she cannot help but shiver as her body adjusts. But Hermione the Attracted wonders if that shiver is something else other than the cold. She is always hoping, always focused.

Oliver speeds on ahead, moving towards a dark blue, four-door saloon parked one hundred metres or so down the street. 'We're taking my car,' he calls.

Hermione stops dead in her tracks, her leather shoes disturbing the frosted dew as they crunch with her stubborn stomps. 'We are not.'

He swivels around, his long black coat swishing dramatically around his legs like a gunslinger from action and science fiction films. 'I'm driving,' he declares adamantly.

'I repeat: no you are not.' He stares at her pointedly. 'I am not getting in any contraption with you in control.'

'Well I'm not getting in any contraption with _you_ in control either.'

They glare, both determined to stand their ground, even though Hermione knows there is little point. Hermione the Driver does not exist... there was little choice between saving the world and saving the pedestrians. There is a tap on the window that sends both of their gazes immediately towards the sounds, and Hermione bends low again, tenses into a subtle duelling position. Hermione the Warrior sighs and releases her muscles. Two interfering crones cackle in her mind, their eyes twinkle mysteriously from the house and Hermione the Reasonable decides that staying put would simply not be worth it. Though Hermione the Warrior protests, Hermione the Logical agrees. There are just some battles not worth fighting.

'Oh, fine!' Hermione the Spiteful relents grudgingly in a hiss, if only to save her own skin. 'The sooner you are gone, the better.'

_-x-x-x-_

Oliver and the Hermiones travel in an awkward silence, stifling to breathe in, hazardous to breathe out. The car rumbles past endless streets of identical townhouses and extremely similar green trees that make it seem as if they are going around in circles. Hermione the Observational knows the circles are only in her tired, irregularly scattered mind knows there are too many Hermiones and she knows she has to keep an eye on too many things. Her focus is stretched to breaking point from conscious and subconscious thought, holding onto the common, desperate need to overachieve. So she watches direction, control, driver, behind, below, above, the reflection of the rear-view window, a shadow long past. She will only be free when the ride is finished. Hermione the Warrior had to save them, she said. Now, it seems, it will never end.

Hermione the Attracted forces a glance at Oliver. He clenches the steering wheel tightly and keeps his eyes on the road, coat open. She smothers a laugh. His beanie makes his ears stick out.

They slow to an intersection, the car moves smoothly to the left into the turning bay and stops. 'In case you were wondering,' he says over the click-click of the indicator, 'I know where I'm going.'

'You do, do you?'

'I used to live around here.'

There is a pause while Hermione the Reasonable considers truth, but somehow, it is always too late to turn back. 'I wasn't wondering,' she denies.

He twists to face her, smirks knowingly. 'Sure you weren't.'

She shakes her head. 'I wasn't.'

Oliver nods, the longer hairs sticking out of his beanie swish. 'You were.'

Hermione the Malicious barges in, considers this an entertaining game and joins in. Her face is stone as she meets his gaze with all the stubborn persistence she can muster. 'No, I was not. You are _not_ competent enough to be a Legilimen.'

'I could be a _muggle_ and still detect that, yes, you _were_ thinking about men and directions.' His tone carries a frosting of icicles that send chills down her back.

But still, she very much dislikes how close to the truth he is. 'No.'

'Yes.'

'No.'

'Yes.'

A car horn beeps. They jump back and Oliver turns the car faster and tighter than what she deems safe. She crosses her arms and looks out the window. 'Conceited Quidditch jock.'

'I heard that.'

'Congratulations.'

Hermione the Bouncer throws everyone out except Hermione the Reasonable and Oliver huffs, seems to count to ten under his breath. 'Let's talk to each other as little as possible, okay?'

'Fine.'

Both seethe. The car rumbles and the air is stifling. Both seem to be lost deep within their jumbled minds, internal dialogue shouting advice that both seem to ignore.

It seems like everyone wants a piece of her, and she's running out of supply to meet the demand.

It seems like she is breaking up, too much, too early, too late to turn back. Each day it seems to have worsened. The silencing charm gags her and the cage rattles on the rocks as she seems to be plummeting down into a dark, cavernous chasm, all alone with her mouth open in a silent scream that only she seems to be able to hear.

But she cannot forget that nothing is as it seems. This could all be a front. She knows she is not really angry at him, and is not entirely convinced he is angry at her either, but is that enough to take a chance? She can't afford to dismantle anymore.

Hermione the Reasonable uncrosses her arms, fixes her eyes from the tedious sights of endless, identical streets to something new, something attractive in its unique completeness. Hermione the Bouncer allows Hermione the Caring in. She sighs, asks, 'Are you going to Budgen's?'

He glances at her, an expression of fleeting surprise across his face, and something else she knows she likes but cannot fully comprehend before his eyes fly back to the road like he can barely take his eyes off it. He nods. 'The closest one, yeah.'

Cars move, bored people peer out from within with dull eyes. There is a traffic-free bend in the road ahead.

'Good.'

_-x-x-x-_

They walk in through the electronic gates and bypass the trolleys and pinging cash registers. 'Get a basket,' Hermione the Logical orders distractedly, already calculating various problems to make the outside visit shorter. She takes one after him and throws out an old, shrivelled piece of lettuce with a crinkle of her nose. 'People these days,' mutters Hermione the Muggle.

Oliver waits for her to overcome her disgust and walk back from the rubbish bin. 'Lazy, aren't they?' he agrees brightly.

She has to hurry. She has to complete their task and leave the bustling crowds of dangerous strangers that catch her throat with the feeling of being severely outnumbered. So she ignores him and focuses. 'We're going to do this half and half. Here's yours; back here in ten. By that I mean seven, Wood.'

'Right, _Granger_.' She wants to clarify but he has already turned on his heel and left. All Hermione the Caring's good work has come undone.

And so, she stands alone amongst a crowd of people, in pieces, and partial and broken words fall from her lips with reckless abandon to strangers. 'My name is Hermione,' she whispers, 'but I don't know who that is.'

_-x-x-x-_

In seven minutes, he is already done. Hermione the Observational notes how he stands tall with his broad shoulders straight and coat down to his ankles, pursing his lips and reading a book from the stand beside him. She vaguely wonders if he planned the position.

He looks up at her approach with the undefinable expression from the car, the one she could not remove from her mind no matter how much she tried to scratch it out. 'Done?'

Hermione the Reasonable nods because Hermione the Attracted is star struck with romantic fantasies and Hermione the Socially-Inept has not a clue what to do. They are all afraid of what she will say, or any of them; Hermione the Confident died sometime during those long, grey months of battle.

Somewhere between isles five and six, the Hermiones agreed they want this near-stranger close. Hermione the Malicious is disagreeing in colourful language, yelling as she is locked in a cell, no more able to escape than the real Mad-Eye Moody from the seven locked trunk, way back when their lives started to flake away.

They stand in the queue in silence, Oliver still with his nose in the book. Curious, Hermione the Observational sneaks a glance at the cover; an atomic mushroom rises in the background, people scream in the terror of nuclear war. She shivers and tries to ignore the onslaught of dark, bloody images that barrel into her mind. They are too horrible, too real. Hermione the Memory Worker shudders in her brown coat and Gryffindor scarf as she hastily pushes them away. Oliver notices her uneasiness, stares right at her with his comforting brown eyes. 'Hey, you alright?'

'Yeah,' she says and shrugs. He notices her dig her cold, gloved hands in the deep coat pockets but says nothing. She is partially grateful.

Hermione the Observational prods her forwards and soon she is reaching into her purse for money that is not there.

She forgot the money.

No Hermione is prepared. They all help in the stuttered apologies and worried, nervous tones that break through like Hagrid through the dark when he was carrying Harry's limp body not so long ago.

She starts to panic.

The shop assistant is not amused.

'I'm sorry,' she starts again.

But she feels a large hand warm on her arm, and sees another reach over with money enough to pay. Hermione the Warrior huffs, wishing to stay self-sufficient, but the shop assistant has already snatched it away and Hermione the Attracted is jumping around and laughing somewhat hysterically at the contact. She barely manages to hear Hermione the Caring poke her too bushy head in and remind her to say thank you.

'Thank you,' she says and he smiles shortly and removes his arm. Hermione the Attracted settles down. They move towards the exit. Oliver carries two bags, Hermione one.

'Don't mention it,' says Oliver. She winces at the frosty tone.

Hermione the Caring forces her to persist where other Hermiones yell warnings in the background.

'I suppose professional Quidditch pays thousands.' Hermione the Reasonable wanted the remark to sound warm, but it comes out heated; too, too hot.

Oliver glances sidelong from beside her, walking briskly and staring as if he is trying to find an ulterior motive. 'Hundred, only. The reserves don't pay much.'

'Oh.' Hermione the Attracted screams herself hoarse that her only motive is to keep him close because somehow, his presence is helping her regain her sanity, keeping her friendly and open and talkative in a way that she has not been for months now.

So she continues, following his lead through the car park towards the blue saloon parked sensibly under a tree. 'Is it Quidditch twenty-four-seven with you?'

He nods and opens the boot. 'In the season when the weather isn't so erratic. But I do have some free time, and I read then.'

She narrows her eyes, cocks her head to the side. 'Interesting,' he takes the plastic bag out of her fingers. Their hands brush and Hermione the Socially-Inept barrels headfirst through Hermione the Bouncer. 'So do you er…' she coughs behind her hand. 'Er… read a lot?'

Oliver chuckles shortly and holds up the science-fiction he was reading in the check-out queue. 'I love to fly, Hermione. Physically on a broom and mentally within the worlds of books.' An irrepressible grin appears on his face as her eyes widen. 'Do you understand?'

She does. He means to escape. Hermione the Logical deduces that, strategically, the only way out of answering the inevitable questions is to end the conversation. Now. She shrugs. 'As much as I can.'

They get in the car and take off their scarfs because the weather is gathering for another bout of rain. 'I thought you read all the time. All I remember with you is piles and piles of books. It was like a fort.'

A fort. That is what she needs. 'Of course, but I don't fly. Not on a broom.'

He throws the book on the backseat too while she clutches her small shoulder handbag and fiddles with the buttons on her coat. She can feel him examining her fidgeting as he says, 'Flying is escape. Everyone needs to escape.'

They need to, but what if they are unable to?

Hermione the Logical is silent, hoping he understands the conversation is closed. He nods, holds onto her seat to turn around, and the world falls away as he reverses out.

_-x-x-x-_

**-AA-**


	4. Two Hermiones

**Partial – 4/5**

The car rumbles quietly past identical, endless streets. It turns into one that is not endless, one which has a house with an angel on the mailbox with a grassy children's park at the end. The street is circular and windy, with many bends before the park is crossed and the angel reached.

He drives straight and is slowly slowing down when he breaks the silence. 'We're being ridiculous.' The breath comes out like a sigh and the sigh sounds like exhaustion.

Hermione the Lonely and Hermione the Tired cause her to sigh with him in exactly the same way. 'Completely,' she agrees. After the first bend, Hermione the Memory Worker reluctantly lets her see the lost memories and as they filter back in all their unwanted gore, she chokes back a sob

'We said "them."'

'Yeah.'

"Fred died.'

'Yeah.'

Their voices are toneless. The air is faintly oppressive. Hermione the Memory Worker recites tome after tome of suppressed memories from the restricted section in a strangled voice as if she herself can hardly believe she recorded something so horrific. Now she knows everything and the faces are not a blur or the names erased. She can see the dead lying on the table, the survivors crying, George kneeling at Fred's head with silent tears running down his face and her arms around the sobbing Ginny who both reaches out and pulls away from her family, and her best friends, one twin dead and the other left behind. There is a lump forming in her throat. It hurts. Hermione the Warrior yells that it is weak to cry. Do not cry, she commands, you shall not cry. So she swallows, but that does nothing and she feels as if she is choking. Her breathing is laboured. The car is so slow and yet suddenly excessively fast. The bends make her nauseous.

The car is coming up to the house with the angel on the mailbox. It seems to sigh. She sighs too and her vision clouds and hazes over. There is something wrong. Her cheeks feel strange. Hermione the Observational pats them, wondering what has happened.

Why are they wet?

Hermione the Bouncer, the velvet rope and the door are all knocked over and out by a rampage of Hermiones that is too violent and the unionised onslaught too foreign for the boundaries to hold back. They can vaguely hear Oliver calling out to her as the tears drop off her chin and she begins to hyperventilate. The car passes the mailbox with the angel on it and screeches to a skidding halt alongside the park at the end. He runs around and opens the door and all the Hermiones fall out in a flurry of coats , completely rampant in the state of perpetual catastrophe that sends the alarms blazing Gryffindor red and all Hermiones huddled and screaming into the same dark corner that Hermione the Suicidal gave up on life.

'Breathe, Hermione,' he tells her as he crouches down at her level, holds onto her arms. How can she breathe? Since the war, there has been no breathing and no grieving and everyone relying on her too much so that she has literally cracked under the pressure. 'Come on, you can do it.' She is surprised to hear real, strong concern in his worried voice. She is so used to toneless, distant voices of those left behind, or screams, or shouts, or absolute, deafening silence.

She tries to breathe on the green, sludgy ground of the park, tries to stop. All Hermiones fail and she collapses, so that he is holding her too thin, not perfect after all, broken and partial everything in his arms. He instinctively pulls her to his barrelled chest and she drenches his shirt, sobbing uncontrollably the very way she should have from the start instead of keeping it dangerously pent up, even when it started to break her apart beyond immediate, self-sufficient repair. Oliver coos and whispers and pats her back and slowly the tsunami falls down and washes away in a flood of raw emotion and anger that Hermione the Warrior says she should not feel and certainly not show.

The partial Hermiones flood out in the tidal wave, incapable of staying in the not so dark, flooded and wet corner any longer. They fizz out of existence like the froth of an ocean. All that is left is the crying of salty tears of the hysterical Hermione Granger and her scarred hands clutching the folds of a black coat worn by Oliver Wood.

_-x-x-x-_

Children stop to stare at the strange scene by the roadside, with two oblivious young adults leaning against a hazardously parked dark blue car, sitting in dirt. The woman, younger and thin with bushy curls, has her face in the older man's broad shoulder. He has turned his head, seems to be whispering in her ear that is lost somewhere in the brown mane, and the children find this incredibly interesting.

The scene seems to have stopped. A soccer ball rests in a twelve-year-old's hands, forgotten as he studies them with his head cocked to the side, bumps, cuts and scrapes on his arms and legs. His mother calls him over and reprimands him on politeness. It is rude to stare.

But the child refuses, simply noting he was not ogling, but studying. Does she not want him to grow up empathetic? She smiles, says that yes, partially, though some people may take it the wrong way. Look after women. She glances at the two on the roadside. Like that. He is doing alright. The boy nods, returns to his friends and kicks the ball high.

The man with the brown hair, brown eyes and woman in his arms begins to rock her gently. He whispers words. Some are what he thinks she wants; others are what he knows she needs.

Because his mother said the same thing.

_-x-x-x-_

It is just Hermione who stares blankly up at the afternoon sky with dry eyes, neither watching rain fall nor feeling it prick her skin like hundred, continuous needles. She does not smell Oliver's cologne or the rain or mud or recently mowed grass. Oliver's words of practicality about the rain go unheeded. Her mind is… her mind is…

Silent.

Quiet.

Empty.

This is what she is aware of.

It seems to extraordinarily strange to her. No one is screaming or crying or advising. It is surreal.

And when she finally accepts this fact, she can hear Oliver speaking next to her. She turns her head on the door. 'It's raining,' he says simply. She meets his eyes for a second. They are darker than hers.

'Yes, it is.' She turns away, looks up at the grey, overcast sky. And then, slowly but surely, she can feel the humid tension that has built up thick within the air, taste the rain on her tongue as she runs it quickly over her lips, hear the puddles as each new drop joins the others with a ripple and smell the mown grass and cologne. Hermione turns back to him.

It is that same, undefinable expression. 'What?'

He blinks then asks, 'Are you okay?'

Hermione cracks a wry, bitter grin. 'Not really.'

'Oh.'

'But I'm better.'

'That's good.'

She nods. But something strikes her as she moves her fingers in her coat pocket, feels paper through her leather gloves and hears it crackle as she clenches it. 'The list!' she cries, 'We're awfully late.'

Oliver laughs at that. 'The list was absolute bollocks from the start,' he tells her. 'I reckon it was just a ploy to stop us from making anymore mischief.'

She cracks a tiny smile. 'We were rather difficult.' Hermione stands up against the car.

He follows her up and leans against the front door. Oliver brushes down his coat and rubs the back of his neck, saying, 'You're not a mind-wasted bitch, Hermione.'

'And you, Oliver, are probably not a coward,' she agrees then pauses to look up at him. 'I'm sorry about that.'

He nods. 'I am too.'

'And about the Quidditch…'

'It's okay. I was being a jerk.'

The mothers start to usher their children back to the car, muddy soccer balls and all. They watch them in silence, the rain falls harder.

Hermione continues to watch the park empty as he rubs his face and does up his coat, muttering, 'Today is really messed up.'

'Everything is.'

'How do you mean?'

She fingers her scarf. 'I'm a war hero. I'm famous in our world. Did you think I would be stronger?'

Again, he rubs the back of his neck. He admits, 'Yeah… I did, actually,' but his voice is not unkind and it does not hurt her how it might have.

'They all do. Since I've found that I'm not, I don't know who I am…' Hermione swallows and puts her head in her hands. Her mother's words come back to her. 'This stranger is repulsive.'

Oliver immediately puts his arm around her again. 'You're not repulsive at all,' he comforts.

'_She _is,' Hermione cries, 'I… I know _what_ I am, but I don't know _who_ I am. I seem to be so many things at once, all the time. I can't tell who are me, who are not and who are only temporarily me. There's almost thirty parts scrambling around inside.'

He rubs her back, shakes her shoulders lightly. 'Everyone's like that.'

'N-not like this.' Her hair brushes his coat as she vigorously shakes her head.

'Maybe not so many, but they are.' He laughs shortly. 'I mean, obviously, after what our generation has been through we're expected to have rather erratic personality changes.'

'Oliver…'

He interrupts her. 'We are all partial; so many different bits to make a whole. People have so many sides to their personality. There are so many bits running around inside of us that sometimes it's hard to be "strong." It's just how humans are, Hermione.' She doesn't respond, still with her hands covering her face. He nudges her. 'It's okay to be partial,' he murmurs.

The rain slows and returns to sensationalising skin with needle pinpricks and soft, whispering flicks and trickles. Slowly, Hermione removes her wet leather gloved hands from her face and swallows. Her voice is small. 'Really?'

'Really.'

She smiles for real this time, small and deep like they have always been for her, and Oliver grins and pulls his beanie back further down.

His ears stick out tremendously and Hermione laughs.

Oliver drives her home.

_-x-x-x-_

Around three-thirty, the guests start to depart with gratifications flying out of their mouths and promises to stay in touch. Hermione stands with her parents, not their daughter, not a host, not perfect after all, just Hermione Granger waving and embracing and kissing off Friend Of the Family, Dentistry Colleague, Uncle, Aunt, Cousin, Grandparent, Second Cousin, Rover the Labrador, each telling her what she needs to know.

But she does not hurt inside at all.

She genuinely smiles.

And Hermione is still smiling when the Wood family are filing out the door. It falters suddenly because she realises there is no possible way for her to see him again and a part of her, it does not matter which, cannot bear the thought.

Mrs. Granger laughs, turns to her and tugs on her arm. 'Hermione, dear, this is Jean.'

Jean smirks wickedly, winks and nods subtly to Oliver who is grinning obliviously beside her, beanie and all. Hermione realises that she knows and she gets an idea. She smooths her features and says, 'We've met, Mum.'

'Oh,' says her mother, deflating slightly. 'I was simply hoping you'd catch up with her sometime with this nice young lady, very polite and thoughtful.'

The older Woods look at her as if she is crazy and Mr. Granger luckily saves them unknowingly from an awkward silence. 'I hope you enjoyed the lunch.'

Mrs. Wood smiles pleasantly, her voice carrying a laugh. 'Oh, yes. It was very entertaining.'

The small talk ends. The women wave to each other, the men shake hands and kiss the women's cheeks. 'Oh, I have someone for you to meet, Jean,' Hermione tells her when they get a chance.

Jean cocks her head to the side, purses her lips and twinkles her eyes. 'Sure,' she agrees. 'I'll see you around.'

Oliver and Hermione hesitate for only a moment. Then he leans forward, a hand lightly on her shoulder, and he kisses not her cheek but her temple, managing to catch the corner of her left eye. His lips are warm and Hermione feels herself flush, stop breathing and start shaking all at the same time from the slight stubble that grazes her skin. She steps forward presses her body closer to him. An _accidental_ brush of jeans that makes him grin broadly.

Her feeling of dread vanishes. She doesn't know when or how but she feels promised. His eyes shine and her own dance and he goes out the door with a flourish of black coat.

_Look at me,_ she thinks,_ please look back._

He does and he grins and turns the corner away from her sight but not her mind.

And when Hermione's mother gives up trying to lecture her on her 'irrational excuses' for the outburst at the dining table three hours prior, Hermione hardly notices, still grinning like a fool. She flies to her bedroom, walking more confidently than she had in years, and stares at her glowing face in the mirror.

Then she smiles.

And parts of her fit back together.

_-x-x-x-_

**-AA-**


	5. One Hermione

**Partial 5/5**

The next day, Hermione apparates to the Burrow at eleven o'clock exactly and promptly runs up the stairs with her completely free mane flying out behind her. She sneaks past everyone at home; Percy reading on the couch, Molly and Arthur in the kitchen, Ginny in her bedroom and Ron and Harry out the back playing Quidditch. She stops in front of a door on the second floor, far away from Percy's bedroom and the second-floor landing.

She knocks twice, hard, sharp and insistent, expecting no answer. Astonishingly, Hermione hears a loud grunt, thump and a strangled cry as if someone is biting their tongue to keep from swearing. The door opens.

And there is George, in nothing but red flannel sweatpants, his hair long and dishevelled with stubble riddled across his strong chin and his eyes red rimmed. He peers at her. 'Hermione? What're you—?'

She shoves him through the door and right back onto his bed as if she were going to snog him senseless. Hermione tuts at the horrendously untidy room and turns to George who is sitting with his legs open and his mouth agape, sprawled invitingly on the bed, brown eyes wide. 'Oh, shut your mouth, George. I just want to talk.'

Suddenly, his face turns grey and it loses the warm glow of surprise. 'Oh. Talk.'

Hermione does not sit on Fred's completely clean, neat and crisp bed on the other wall as she speaks but on one of the chairs with a white shirt thrown over it. 'Not that kind of talk. I don't think you need or want or can take anymore pity.' She holds it up and peeks around it at George. 'Is this the Irish National mascot?' Hermione asks, studying the little green, smirking leprechaun.

'Yeah,' he says. She grins behind the t-shirt and folds it up in one fluid movement. His voice is bewildered, and that's a good sign.

'I met a fan of yours.'

'You did.'

'I did. She used one of the Time Stoppers on my family.'

He raises an eyebrow then lowers it as if trying not to show his interest. 'She did?'

'She did. I gave her a lecture about it too.' Hermione smirks over at him, something she would not have done three years ago. Hermione, bookworm, confused and socially-inept, is smirking as if she owns the world. Oliver's face pops into her head and his beanie with his ears poking out. She starts to smile, then starts to laugh.

'Hermione?' George calls, astonished at first, but then worried when she does not stop. '_Hermione_?'

'I'm,' she coughs, picks up another shirt, 'I'm sorry, George.' She peers closely. It's red this time.

George stares at her and sits up straight with his hands on his knees. He looks at the floor. 'No… don't be sorry. I just haven't heard laughter for ages. I haven't heard you laugh… ever.'

'Well now you have.' Hermione smiles, then her eyes travel downwards and she blushes at his broad chest. She lightly throws him the red t-shirt. 'Put this on, please.'

'Why?' George asks as he catches it, genuinely bewildered.

'I am an eighteen-year-old female and you are a nineteen-year-old male with an exposed chest that is not at all bad to look at. I would not like to get sidetracked, thank you.'

'Oh.' He pulls it over his head and talks while he puts his arms through. 'Why exactly are you here?' She smiles secretly and bends down to pick up another t-shirt. It is red. As she realises what it means that everything in this room comes in twos, Hermione slowly tucks her hair behind her ears with the t-shirt dropped onto her lap. It is soft and scarlet, like blood, like death… 'Hey. Hermione?'

_There are so many bits running around inside of us that sometimes it's hard to be 'strong' _

_…It's okay to be partial. _

'Are you broken, George? Partial?'

George sits back against the wall and laughs short and bitter. 'Innit obvious, love?'

She looks up from the bloody t-shirt and leans forward with her face pulled tight into a frown. 'I know what you're going through,' she whispers.

George erupts, yelling and waving his arms hysterically. 'You do _not_ know what I'm going through! No one does! I can hardly breathe, I—"

Hermione cannot afford him yelling. She launches forwards and lands with bent knees in-between his legs, clamping a firm hand on his mouth. 'Shh,' she hisses, 'no one knows I'm here.' They are so close, so very close. Hermione does not feel anything, though, because the Weasleys are like family to her, and this is just a fight between brother and sister. She removes her hand.

'Why not?' George asks, staring hopelessly at her.

She scrambles down next to him and stares at the giant letters reading FRED above the opposite bed. 'Because I can't stand their pity either.' The black, burnt streaks of spells gone awry draw her gaze.

George shifts next to her, bending the mattress so that she has to move her hips to stop herself from falling onto him. 'You didn't lose anyone,' he whispers, 'we did.'

And suddenly, Hermione is laughing again, though it is dark and bleak like the days in April, full of rain and wild weather that did not used to matter because April first seemed like the best day of the year. 'So they say.'

George is silent while he waits for an explanation. Hermione feels like they should be sitting on a wharf somewhere in the dead of night, staring out at the dark water while sharing hopeless stories and a bottle of whisky. She sighs and looks down at her hands. 'My parents. I think I'm dead to them.'

She looks over at him, with his too long flaming red hair ragged and knotted and his skin pale and stubble showing to see his shock displayed freely. 'Why?' he asks.

'I took away a part of their lives, they saw it as betrayal and now they are afraid of me as a witch.' She sighs and reigns in her crying. 'This isn't what I came to say, but the point is, George, your loss of your twin is like my loss of my mother and my father.'

'I don't think it is,' whispers George icily.

'They don't love me anymore.' George is silent but his arm moves against hers. 'I know what you are going through and I know you are partial.'

'I'm nothing without him, Hermione. I _am_ him, in the mirror, in people's heads… even though I'm missing a giant chunk out of my…' Hermione puts her head on his shoulder and lets him take her hand. He breathes shakily. 'But… I'm… less than a half. Dead as dust.'

Hermione puts their hands on his knee. 'I know what can help you. I know where you can get back your life.'

George swallows and his voice cracks. 'How? Where?'

'It worked for me, at least for a time.' She slowly lets go and moves to sit across from him again. There is the sound of running feet on the stairs. They hold their breath and it fades away. 'A girl named Jean. She's your biggest fan.'

'A prankster?'

A light shines in his eyes, something each of them have gained during the past months. George makes the cycle complete. Hermione smirks. 'Yes, a very devious prankster.'

_-x-x-x- _

On Christmas day, Hermione Granger wakes up early, dresses in the dark and reads a Transfiguration book in the kitchen until her mother comes in. She sees her practicing a complicated spell of transfiguring her finger into a claw and frowns, telling her they are going to open presents.

Hermione, unfazed, kisses her mother on the cheek and chirps, 'Happy Christmas, Mum,' in a cheery voice.

She does the same to her father, sitting in his armchair with a cup of tea and a tired smile, and instead of frowning he squeezes her arm and wishes her back. _That's progress_, she thinks, nodding to herself.

Just as they are about to open the presents, two loud knocks sound on the door. Hermione looks around, wondering if they are expecting anyone but her mother shrugs in her dressing gown and disappears into the kitchen. 'Could you get that, honey?' her father asks.

'Sure, Dad.' Hermione walks through the arch and looks through the peephole in the wooden door. Her heart stops. _Sweet Merlin,_ she thinks, patting her hair and licking her lips. She opens the door.

'Hermione…' Oliver breathes. There is no more beanie, no scarf and no coat and no protection or defence from the icy cold. He wears a dark blue woollen jumper with a high neck that accentuates his broad shoulders and the same dark jeans and boots that make her lick her lips again. 'Happy Christmas,' he mutters distractedly with his hands digging deep into pockets. He shakes his head as if to clear it of cobwebs, or like he wants to bang it on a desk.

She is confused. 'Oliver?'

'Yeah… er…' he rubs the back of his neck. 'I should be with my parents now… and Jean.'

Hermione still does not understand when her father calls out from the sitting room, 'Who is it, Hermione?'

She shoots a glance at Oliver. Both their eyes are wide. 'Er… a friend,' she calls, 'I'll be outside.'

'Come out here,' Oliver mumbles as he takes her hand and pulls her out, holding tightly even after she closes the door. It feels like fire. It should be cold but it is so very hot.

He lets go and ducks his head, as if scolding himself, then looks back.

Then they stare at each other.

'I needed to see you.' Oliver blurts out, flushing and looking earnestly at her.

Hermione laughs, spreads her arms wide. 'Well. Here I am.'

Oliver rubs the back of his neck again. 'I mean… oh bloody hell. I needed to talk to you. I can't stop _thinking _about you. It's driving me insane.'

Her eyes widen to saucers, seeing him in a new light. 'Oh,' she whispers.

'We're all partial, right? That day, the Lunch, I was many different Olivers… but in the hall… this isn't coming out right.'

She becomes frantic, hoping this is not one of her dreams. 'Go on,' she urges, grasping his arm 'Who were you in the hall?'

He stares at her with the undefinable expression. 'I was Oliver the Brave.'

'Brave?' she laughs, trying not to show how nervous she is, 'and there I was calling you a coward.'

'If I was a coward I wouldn't have even made it out of my door.' She almost falls over and accidentally knocks her elbow on the door. It hurts. She is not dreaming. This is real.

Hermione swallows because her throat is suddenly inexplicably dry. 'Why?'

'You're intimidating,' he whispers, seemingly more confident. Her eyebrows shoot up and she blushes a deep scarlet. 'You have this… presence… and a grace I've seen in only the best and fastest of Chasers… and it doesn't hurt that you are definitely attractive.'

Hermione laughs nervously. 'Attractive? _Chaser_? Me? Never.'

'You are,' he reaches and tugs on her hand and she cannot breathe or speak or laugh or react anymore as he lowers his voice. 'And I find that endearing… and therefore intimidating.'

Oliver walks forwards, his gaze intent as she squirms and turns and walks backwards, only to hit the traitorous sidewall of the covered entrance at the front of the house. 'I'm only just eighteen,' she tries, looking up at him, 'I'm too young.'

He smiles. 'And I'm only twenty, so it makes little difference.'

'I'm not perfect.'

Oliver stops. 'I'm not going to hurt you,' he tells her.

'I'm not threatened,' Hermione assures him, because she is not threatened by her back pressed against the wall her vision blocked out by his body. She is afraid of her own inexperience, of the consequences of accepting this, giving in. 'I'm just… I don't want you to make a mistake.'

'Alright,' he leans forward, whispers in her ear, 'I wouldn't like you if you were perfect.'

How had Oliver Wood, determined, staid Quidditch captain, grown up to be so teasing? She shivers and he pulls back smirking. 'I'm not very strong,' she squeaks.

'Neither am I.'

Hermione seriously doubts that. 'I don't play Quidditch.' Oliver pulls away, a musing expression on his face. Chilling air swoops in and chills her bones. _Too, too far away_. Desperately, Hermione bargains, taking a risk. 'I sometimes _watch_ Quidditch.'

Oliver smirks again. 'That'll do,' he says. 'Afraid of flying?'

'Falling.' He leans over her, boxes her in with his arms at either side of her head. She smells his cologne and she swear that he too is taking her shampoo in. A nervous knot tightens in her stomach.

'Not flying?'

'Not as such.'

Their voices have become lower and quieter. His is deep and hers is breathless because her head is spinning and she is overwhelmed by the possibilities and the fact that she has no idea what to do apart from answer his questions and hope like hell he does not pull away.

'I'll teach you,' promises Oliver.

A thought strikes Hermione, apart from the suffocating situation she has found herself in. She tilts her head to the side. 'Why didn't you fight?' she asks.

He leans his forehead against hers for a moment, stopping her breath in her lungs then pulls back enough that she almost regrets asking. 'I know everything about Quidditch. Dad made sure of that… but nothing about survival.'

'You couldn't defend yourself?' breathes Hermione.

'Not enough to live. Not enough spells.'

She smiles, breaking the sombre mood, and he smiles too. Their breathing becomes more and more laboured by the second. 'I'll teach you.'

A pause almost causes her to faint from the tension and intensity crackling in the small amount of air between them. His nose brushes hers when he sways very close and his breath is falling on her lips so much she shudders and almost falls down.

'That'd be good.' He smirks and Oliver wraps his arms around her back. It is too much. She has to lick her lips and only then does she see his brown eyes dart down and suddenly realise what that undefinable expression has always been.

Attraction.

Desire.

Want.

She bites her lip, unable to stop herself from becoming flustered and nervous as he draws out the banter and stretches it until she thinks she might snap.

'I have one last confession,' he whispers, his breath falling on her parted lips.

'Yes?'

'I want to help you regain your lost sides.'

Hermione bites her lip again, flexes her hands that are trapped against his chest. 'I don't mind being partial.'

Oliver shakes his head and his hair brushes her forehead where it could have been his lips. 'It's not healthy when it's this extreme.'

'They're lost in a war of the past,' she protests, watching the fire of determination and cloud of lust battling in his eyes. 'We'll never get them back.'

'Won't you let me try?'

Fighting him, this, whatever it is, is fruitless when he moves his now cold hand under her jumper to feel the fabric of her thin, skimpy singlet top and the other to rest on the back of her neck. It is a dirty trick that clouds her own eyes and mind and voice so that she sounds husky, even to her own ears. 'Okay.'

'Good.' Oliver's voice is too. His eyes roam slowly up and down and he pulls away slightly, his hands moving out to her shoulder blades. It is close. It is not close enough. She can hardly care less if she is inexperienced now, only with Ron's wet fumbling kisses in the dark for comparison, only that this is not enough and Ron never made her feel quite so needy or warm when it was the dead of winter with the danger of her parents seeing at any moment.

'Oliver?'

'Yes?'

'Hurry up.'

He grins, brushes her lips with his. 'Okay.'

And he takes the plunge for her, neither a coward nor Quidditch obsessed, where her Gryffindor bravery failed her because of her own broken insecurities that will take a little longer to heal. Their lips crash together and Hermione instantly moves her hands up from his chest to his neck with an instinct that might not have saved her in a war but saves her now. Oliver pulls her head closer, one hand knotted in her hair. She stands on the very tips of her toes, hoping desperately this feeling will never end. And they only see and feel and hear and smell each other on Christmas Morning, standing on the Granger's porch and locked in each other's embraces in a near-completeness that everyone strives for, partially undivided and whole like the world wishes to be.

Because it is never just one, but two.

_-x-x-x- _

**-AA- **


End file.
